Shades Of Fine
by volley
Summary: Our intrepid Lieutenant Reed has to play hero once again. An "I Am Fine Month" story.
1. Chapter 1

Here it is! My entry for "I Am Fine Month" :-) Six chapters of silliness... hope you'll enjoy it.

§1§

Trip watched Malcolm wave a frantic hand in front of his face, warding off a cloud of buzzing insects. In the damp environment of the marshland, miniature flying creatures seemed to thrive.

"Bugger off," Malcolm cursed under his breath. "Go to Mr. Tucker. He's the Floridian."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Through the flying things, Trip threw the man an indignant glare. "I already have my own fair share of the little buggers to deal with," he pretended to complain. He couldn't even bring his notoriously squeamish self to loathe the creatures, silly as they looked.

These were the kind of circumstances where Trip enjoyed showing more outrage than he felt. Life on a ship in the middle of the universe didn't offer much in the way of entertainment, and engaging in verbal matches with a certain Lieutenant had become a fun routine. Malcolm – who, in this case, didn't seem quite as entertained – immediately picked up the gauntlet.

"Surely you're enjoying this lovely climate and its accoutrements," he replied in open disgust. "Make you think of home."

"Ah – I don't like the heat 'n humidity any more than you do."

Malcolm let out a frustrated groan and took another vain swing at the pesterers. "Bugger off, I said! What _are_ these things anyway? They're the wrong colour. Who's even heard of hot-pink gnats?"

His consonants popped like corks going off, and Trip chuckled. Malcolm could boldly face an army of hostile aliens, valiantly bear to be shot and tortured; but put him in a tropical environment and you were sure to have a very pissed-off Lieutenant on your hands. Trip suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that being drenched in sweat went against Malcolm's principles of what an officer should look like at all times: perfectly groomed. He studied his friend, and almost felt sorry for the man.

"Easy, Lieutenant," he teased. "I doubt ya'd want me to report that our intrepid Security Officer was defeated by a squadron of pink insects."

Malcolm sighed in resignation, sweeping a sleeve over his forehead. "How much further to that lake?" he breathed out.

"Almost there." Trip consulted a padd. "Maybe another ten minutes. Don't faint on me now."

"Speak for yourself, I'm fine," was the pissed-off comment. "Only I still don't see why the Chief Engineer and Security Officer of a ship should be sent on a mission to collect medicinal herbs," Malcolm muttered on, his foul mood returning.

Trip rolled his eyes. "Because half the ship is in bed with that fever," he patiently articulated, as one would with a child.

This must be the third time since they had left Enterprise that Malcolm had complained about being chosen for this mission. Something was definitely up with him – besides the tropical climate.

"Who else could the Capt'n have sent?" Trip went on. "Would you have felt better if he'd picked a couple of inexperienced young crewmen from the botanical or medical departments?"

Malcolm's eyes went wide with horror. "Heaven help me, no. More likely than not, I would've had to organise a rescue."

"Ya see?"

"But T'Pol is our Science Officer, and she's not ill," Malcolm countered doggedly. "She'd certainly have made a better choice than a Chief Engineer..."

"Ah – now it's all clear: you'd have preferred to be sent down with a shapely lady than a sweaty Commander."

"... or an Armoury Officer." Malcolm half turned to shoot a meaningful look. "Trip, even Chef would know more about herbs than you and I."

"T'Pol _would_ offer a better view, I can't disagree with ya," Trip went on obliviously. "But she cannot leave the ship, 'cause she's Actin' Captain, 'cause the Capt'n is lying in bed with an icepack on his head, 'cause he has a high fever, 'cause he caught that bug too, 'cause--"

"Yes, yes, I know."

Malcolm passed a hand through his wet hair and Trip wondered if the man knew that it had left it worse than before. He'd better not mention anything: his friend already sounded annoyed about enough things without attracting his attention to his state of disarray.

"Sorry," Malcolm muttered after a moment. "It's that Müller is also laid up and I don't like the idea that I'm here playing botanist while the responsibility of the ship's defence is in the hands of a crewman."

So that's what it was. Trip smiled. That was just like Malcolm.

"It's only for a few hours, nothin' will happen," he said soothingly. "Besides, huntin' for medicinal plants is what's needed right now to save the crew. And savin' the crew is your job, Lieutenant."

A grunt sanctioned Malcolm's agreement to that.

At least they were walking on dry land – if only a narrow strip flanked by swampy ground. Soon they should see the large expanse of water on the banks of which the plant they were looking for was supposed to grow in abundance. Phlox had been told that it was nearly miraculous in treating the outbreak of Trispian fever that was felling Enterprise's crew. The illness was not life-threatening, fortunately, but symptoms were far from pleasant: unfocused eyesight, difficulty of speech and high fever. It had been spreading rather quickly after the Trispian delegation had come onboard, prompting the Doctor to contact one of the biggest hospitals on Trispia for suggestions on how to cure it. They had been given coordinates to a planet in the system – and to a lake on the planet – where they would find the answer to their problems.

"Small, grey, lance-shaped leaves with thin orange stripes and a larger red one down the middle," Malcolm recited, looking around. "Ought to be quite easy to recognise."

"Rubbery texture, growing in clusters on the water edge," Trip added. "Let's not forget that Phlox wants us to bring back some specimens complete with roots; says he's gonna try re-plantin' them in the hydroponic bay."

"Great," Malcolm muttered under his breath. "I'm an Armoury Officer, not a bloody gardener."

Trip bit his lower lip. The words had triggered a mental image of Malcolm in a blue apron and rubber boots, watering hose in hand.

They went through a thick group of willowy trees and suddenly the landscape, which up to that moment had been rather boring, changed dramatically.

"Wow, look at that!" Trip exclaimed. "I think we're there."

An amazing view opened up in front of them, and they stopped dead in their tracks. The lake was quite large, and irregularly shaped. Its milky waters were a strangely attractive shimmering colour which defied definition: something in between grey, green and light blue. All around it grew lush and varied vegetation, an explosion of incredible colours and shapes that reflected in the perfectly still surface, offering a sight that, odd as it looked, any painter would have found hard to resist.

Trip lowered his backpack to the ground and brought a hand to his neck. His muscles had tensed and he could feel a headache developing. The view was too beautiful, though, to pay that much heed.

"I've gotta immortalise this," he said, reaching for his camera.

The silence was broken only by the soft buzzing of some elongated insects that were clouding around the tall, black-speckled flowers which grew along a stretch of the lake. All in all it made for a lazy mood, and for a moment Trip stood there shooting away, while Malcolm, who had dropped to his haunches, threw little pebbles in the water, breaking the reflected picture into a series of small ripples.

"I'm glad those... _helicopters_ over there aren't buzzing around anything grey and orange," Malcolm commented after a while, jerking his chin in the direction of the droning insects. "My scanner doesn't show them as being dangerous, but I think it would be wise to keep away from them. They are quite a bit larger and a lot less innocent-looking than their pink friends."

"Agreed," Trip said, dead serious, repressing a shiver. "Let's take the other bank, then." Reluctantly, he put away the camera and led the way.

The planet's sun was bright, and the heat and humidity created a hazy atmosphere that blunted the edges of things.

Trip rubbed his eyes. "Purple palm leaves, white bamboo, brownish flowers with yellow dots," he listed as they walked past the strange vegetation. "I don't see anything grey with orange stripes."

"The lake is quite large," Malcolm reasoned. "It's going to take us a while to walk its perimeter."

"Yeah."

They went on in silence for another stretch, engrossed in the planet's flora. For some strange reason it seemed to have gathered all of its most vivid specimens in this one spot.

Lifting his gaze, Trip stopped. "Look at those birds over there," he said in puzzlement. "You'd think our presence would scare them off, and instead..."

"What birds?"

"Over there, by those fuzzy mauve bushes."

There was a pause.

"Trip, those are small rocks."

Malcolm's voice was wary, and Trip turned to assessing grey eyes.

"Rocks?" He turned again to the group of still _things_ off at some distance, squinting. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." There was another pause. "Are you feeling okay?"

Trip blinked a couple of times. "Yeah, just peachy," he said with a smile. "There's a lot of humidity in the air, can't see very well in the distance."

He made to resume walking but Malcolm grabbed him by an arm, stopping him.

"I can see those rocks perfectly well," he said in a meaningful voice. "And those mauve bushes aren't _fuzzy_."

They looked at each other in silence.

"Hmm," Trip commented with a lopsided smirk.

Without shifting his gaze from him, Malcolm reached in one of his pockets and produced a medical scanner, which he proceeded to put to good use. He glanced at the readings. The grey eyes, when they lifted, were as veiled as the atmosphere of that planet.

"I believe you may be getting it too," Malcolm said with that cool-under-pressure tone of voice that Trip had learned to recognise as a sign that the man was already picturing a set of dreadful scenarios, and figuring out how to react to them.

Trip huffed. "Look, we don't know that," he countered, automatically going, instead, into 'optimistic mode'. He took the scanner from Malcolm and checked it: alright, his temperature was slightly higher than normal; just verging on what might be considered fever. Mainly, his headache was now a bothersome presence. He heaved a deep breath. "Let's find that plant and get out of here."

"You're getting out of here now, Commander," Malcolm corrected resolutely, reaching for his communicator.

"Malcolm..."

But the man was already paging.

"Reed to Enterprise."

"I'm not leavin' ya alone on this planet, Lieutenant," Trip said innocently. "No one oughtta be alone on an alien planet. Besides, the transporter is off-line."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant."

T'Pol's voice came through over Trip's last words, and Malcolm was left with his mouth agape for a second.

"Subcommander," he finally said, shaking himself, "we're facing a situation. I suspect Commander Tucker is beginning to develop Trispian fever. Is the transporter working?"

"Negative, Lieutenant. As you will undoubtedly recall, the edge of that ion storm, yesterday, caused a few systems to overload. The transporter was among them. With more than half the crew indisposed, restoring it was not a top priority for the Engineering department."

Trip, who was uncorking his canteen, stopped to glance at Malcolm, raising I-told-you-so eyebrows.

"Well, it is now," Malcolm said firmly. "The closest we could land the pod is at some four hours' walk at a brisk pace, and in these conditions of humidity it was an uncomfortable stretch even without a high fever."

"Has the Commander developed a fever?"

"Not yet, but his temperature is somewhat high and his eyesight is becoming less focused."

"We're just not sure I've got Trispian fever," Trip insisted; but he didn't sound very convincing to his own ears. In all honesty, it was quite likely he _was _developing the damn thing.

"How far are you from the location we were given coordinates to?" T'Pol's voice was still perfectly calm. "I must remind you that synthesizing that plant's medicinal property to cure the crew remains, at the moment, our top priority."

"Makes sense," Trip shrugged, meeting frowning grey eyes. T'Pol was right. They must find that plant; for his own sake as well as that of his shipmates.

"We are at the lake," Malcolm admitted.

"Then find that plant, Lieutenant. I will ask Engineering to begin working to bring the transporter back online."

T'Pol had stopped short of saying 'that's an order', but it was clear enough. Trip watched a wince of unhappiness appear on Malcolm's face.

"Can you page me through to sickbay, Subcommander?" the man asked. "I want to get a clear picture of what I am to expect."

"Right away, Lieutenant."

Trip threw one hand up in the air. "We're wastin' time," he ranted. "I'm feelin' just fine."

"The question is, for how long, Comman--"

"Yes, Mister Reed," Phlox's voice interrupted.

"Doctor, what exactly are the symptoms of Trispian fever?"

This was ridiculous. They knew what the symptoms were. Rolling his eyes, Trip waved a beckoning hand and resumed walking. _He_ was going to look for that plant. Casting a look over his shoulder, he saw that Malcolm was absent-mindedly following him.

"Unclear eyesight and headache, followed by scrambled speech, and a rapidly rising temperature," Phlox replied. In a knowing tone, the Doctor enquired, "May I ask why you want to know?"

"Because I believe the Commander has the beginnings of it."

Trip let the conversation fade in the background, suddenly aware of the fact that, actually, his sight was deteriorating rather quickly. He blinked a couple of times, and rubbed two fingers over his eyes, but things were beginning to appear frighteningly blurred: what, some ten metres away, a few minutes before had been a bush laden with small berries, now was a rather indistinct smudge of colours. Well, there was nothing they could do about it; so, knowing Mal, he might as well keep his worries to himself. He lowered his eyes and focused them closer, where things were still relatively clear.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Trip heard Malcolm, behind him, flip the communicator shut and zip up his pocket. A moment later the man had come up to his side. "Don't forget to tell me if you feel you're getting any worse," he said meaningfully.

"As long as I can," Trip joked, feigning a light-heartedness he didn't feel. "Scrambled speech is supposed to be the next symptom."

"Very funny," Malcolm grunted.

They continued their search in silence. At least the pink gnats had disappeared.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

§2§

Half an hour later it had become hard for Trip to distinguish his own feet. And he had felt a few telling shivers run down his back. Dammit, but maybe it _was_ time to inform Malcolm.

He was about to speak, when Malcolm exclaimed, "There! Finally!" and veered towards the water's edge. "Plenty of it, too," his voice floated back, from some distance off to Trip's left.

Malcolm had – supposedly – just walked a few metres away, but he might as well have been transported off the planet, because as far as Trip was concerned he had disappeared completely. Trip's heart began to thump; without the presence of anyone right there beside him, he was suddenly feeling irrationally alone and vulnerable.

"M--"

Great. And now his tongue seemed unable to form words. Trip felt his breathing accelerate.

"M--Malcolm..."

In the matter of seconds the man was back in front of him. His face was just a blurred oval, but Trip knew exactly what kind of expression would be on it.

"What is it?" Malcolm asked in a taut voice.

Trip saw a shadow move from left to right and back. A hand, being waved in front of him.

"Trip, can you see me?"

"Bare--"

"I beg your pardon?"

Trip squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "B--barely."

"Oh."

_Yeah, well, what did ya think? _

"Oh, damn," Malcolm cursed under his breath.

The buzzing of a medical scanner was the next thing Trip knew.

"Your temperature has risen considerably," Malcolm commented in a controlled tone. "I should say your symptoms are unmistakable."

Trip grimaced. No use trying to deny it. "Funderwall." Rolling his eyes, he let out a dramatic sigh. "W--wonderful."

"Indeed."

Malcolm's hand closed around his arm.

"Let me guide you to that tree over there; it's just a few metres off to the right," he said, in the voice of one who was putting his wheels in motion. "I'll collect those bloody plants, and then I'll page Enterprise. Perhaps whoever is left standing in Engineering will have fixed the transporter by now."

"'kay."

Feeling like a swaggering drunk, Trip let Malcolm pull him along and tottered on. He had never really stopped to think what a terrible handicap losing your sight was. The world had suddenly turned into a frightening place.

"The symptoms should revert once Phlox synthesizes that drug," Malcolm was saying, in an awkward attempt at comforting him. "You'll be fine, uhm, eventually."

Malcolm was definitely better at blowing holes in enemy ships than offering verbal support. Trip wondered if the man was aware of how tense his voice was.

"I soap ho. I mean…"

"Yes, yes," Malcolm butted in nervously. "I get it."

Trip groaned: this was bordering on ridiculous. And, actually, he wasn't concerned about the _eventually_: he was concerned about the _now_. For here he was, on an alien planet and almost totally disabled. Malcolm had suddenly been weighed down with a lot more responsibility; and, what was worse, he was pretty sure it would take Engineering a good few hours to restore the transporter to working order. That ion storm had done quite a bit of damage to it.

"Here."

Malcolm took his hand and put it to a scaly surface.

"Why don't you sit down against this tree while I get the job done, Commander? I'll try to be quick."

Trip nodded and let himself slide down, with his back against the trunk. He perceived a shadow beside him, and forced a lukewarm smile on his lips. "Rrr--rossi."

"What about him?"

"Sss--sorry."

"Ah. Not your fault."

Something was put into his right hand.

"Here is your canteen," Malcolm said. "You should drink to keep your fluid levels up." Squeezing Trip's shoulder as he stood up again, he muttered, "I won't be long." A moment later he had disappeared from view, leaving Trip alone in his colourful fog.

Trip hugged himself tightly, fighting back the shivers that his rising temperature was causing him. His eyes wanted to drift closed, the tiredness that comes with illness already setting in, and he almost let them – after all, they were of little use to him at the moment – stopping at the last moment: he should make every effort to keep alert, helpless as he was. Malcolm's footsteps had quickly faded away, and the silence was suddenly rather frightening. Here he was, totally alone, unaware of threats that may surround him. Not to mention that if something happened to Malcolm he wouldn't even realise it, let alone be able to help out. Nothing will happen, we're on an uninhabited planet – he told himself, taking a few deep breaths to fight his irrational fear.

Malcolm must have been gone for no longer than ten, fifteen minutes, but it felt like ages. Finally there was the sound of footsteps.

"It's me, Commander."

Trip frowned. Their Armoury Officer never used that deep a timbre without a good reason. Well, the present circumstances probably warranted it.

There was a slow and controlled exhalation as Malcolm lowered himself and re-entered Trip's reduced sight-range.

"Done?" Trip asked, straightening. He'd better keep to monosyllables.

"Yes."

Malcolm, on the other hand, had no need to… Trip waited for more, and when it didn't come he wondered about the negative vibes he was beginning to get. Malcolm was a man of few words, but this seemed a bit too terse even for him. A moment later a pocket was being unzipped and a communicator flicked open.

"Reed to Enterprise."

Malcolm definitely sounded off-colour. Worried. Yeah, worried. _Normal, for the man_ – Trip reassured himself.

T'Pol's voice rang out without delay. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."

"I have the specimens. Has Engineering repaired the transporter?"

"Not yet. They are working at it, but both Lieutenant Hess and Ensign Rostov are now ill. Engineering is severely understaffed. Doctor Phlox and I seem to be immune to the sickness, but it is spreading rapidly among the crew. I need not tell you that the sooner you bring back the medicinal plant the better, Lieutenant."

There was a pause. Trip could not see Malcolm's expression, but he watched him hang his head, and that spoke plenty.

"Commander Tucker has developed a fever, Subcommander," the man said, in a frustrated voice. "His sight and speech are severely impaired. Our way back to the Shuttlepod is going to be slow and difficult."

Trip shook his head. "I'll be okay," he butted in, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. "I'll just need a hit of belt to--" Dammit. A_ bit _of_ help, _a_ bit _of_ help_ – not that difficult.

"We have no choice, Mr. Reed," T'Pol came back, in her usual unruffled tone. "The moment the transporter is back online I will inform you, of course."

There was another pause. A dark 'Understood' ended the communication.

Malcolm heaved a breath and let it out slowly. "All right, Commander, we have our orders," he said quietly. "Let me know when you need that… _hit of belt_."

Trip groaned and shook his head again, laboriously starting to pick himself up. A hand came to rest on his elbow, guiding him, and he was grateful for it, for actually he felt quite wobbly. Sure enough, as soon as he had gained an upright position he almost lost his balance. Malcolm hurried to steady him and Trip ended up grabbing his arm, eliciting a quick intake of breath.

Frowning in surprise, Trip squinted, but Malcolm remained an indistinct shape. Well, he may have a fever, but there had been no mistaking the sound of _that_.

"What's wrong?" Trip enquired.

"Nothing," was the predictable reply. Malcolm cleared his throat. "It looks like you need that 'bit of help' right now."

"Don't try to play fool with me, Lieutenant." Trip went for his command tone, glad that his tongue was suddenly collaborating. "That was a piss of hain." _Yeah, right_.

"A piss of _what_, Commander?"

The smile in Malcolm's voice was unmistakable.

"Y--you know," Trip grunted in frustration. But of course, if it _had_ been a hiss of pain the stubborn man would never admit it.

"Look, I'm fine," Malcolm, indeed, insisted as he took Trip's arm and put it across his shoulders. "You grabbed me too tightly, that's all. Let's stop wasting breath: we'll need all of it." Without another word he started them on their way back.

Trip wasn't at all convinced and wanted to reply that he was no idiot, but he was too sick to argue. He gave up and staggered along rigidly. Seeing nothing but blurred colours and shapes didn't quite make for a relaxed gait. Gawd, he really didn't feel up to a long walk; and his head was killing him.

Maybe twenty minutes later Malcolm stopped abruptly.

"Listen, Commander," he said in a clipped accent which was somewhat spoiled by gasps of breathlessness. "I realise this must be difficult for you, but worry not, I won't let you smash into a tree: so, would you _pl-ease_ stop walking as if I were dragging you to your execution? Or as if your legs were in casts? For heaven's sake, you're making me work twice as hard!"

"Ya wanna cry… _try_ what it's like?" Trip bit back. "I can't see a fig fat… a big bat… a… nothin'!" he grunted, giving up. Wincing, he pressed two fingers on his throbbing temples.

There was a pause and then a muttered apology. "Sorry," Malcolm croaked out. "Are you in pain?"

He still sounded… well, off. Something was fishy, Trip felt sure of it: Malcolm was usually much more in control of himself, especially under pressure. Trip wished he could get the damn man to tell him what was going on with him. Didn't Malcolm realise that it was hard enough for him without having to worry about what else might be wrong?

"Trip?"

At least for once it was Trip and not Commander. "Headache," Trip groaned.

"Let me give you something for it."

There were sounds of Malcolm rummaging through the backpack. Then a cold something was put to Trip's neck; the hiss of a hypospray followed. The waves of pain gradually subsided, and Trip released a slow breath.

"Better?" Malcolm asked quietly and somewhat contritely.

"Yeah."

A canteen was pressed into Trip's hand. "Have some more water."

Trip didn't need to be asked twice. He was quite thirsty, and drank greedily. Now, if only he could collapse somewhere and get a few hours of sleep... He was exhausted and his brain was under water. There was no way he'd make it all the way back to the pod. He needed to convince Malcolm to leave him behind and come back for him once--

"Shall we go?"

Malcolm was already taking the flask from his hands.

"Wait…" Trip caught his arm, to make his argument more convincing, and Malcolm's breath hitched again. This was too much. Trip tried to hold on to the man, but Malcolm quickly slipped out of his grasp, so he resorted to fix no-nonsense, if unclear, eyes on him and grunted, "Now, crop the cat…" – Damn that stupid illness – "_Cut _the_ crap_. What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant? Sneak! _Speak_! That's an order!"

There was beat of silence; then a soft snort.

"It seems quite obvious that you are in no condition to be in command, Commander," Malcolm retorted innocently. Trip could see enough to know that the man was carefully keeping out of his reach. "Therefore, _I'm_ giving the orders here," he concluded just as candidly.

"Oh, yeah?" Trip bit back. "I don't stink... _think_..."

And now laughter – of all things.

"Allow me to disagree, Commander. You do stink," was the amused comment. "Bloody hell, you do. Not that I must smell like a rose, either."

Trip blinked, cursing his sight, his fever, and his swimming thoughts, which undoubtedly altered his perception of things. This, though, was, all of a sudden, a different type of Malcolm; and, more worriedly, even weirder than the Malcolm who lost control; quite unlike the Malcolm he'd expect under the circumstances. A knot formed in his stomach.

"Come on," the man said, still chuckling. He put Trip's arm across his shoulder. "I suppose it's a good thing T'Pol didn't come on this mission after all: she'd have fainted by now, with either one of us."

Only half listening to Malcolm's light-hearted words, Trip let himself be dragged along: it would take too much effort to offer resistance. He'd do what he could to keep upright, and then… then, once he collapsed for good, Malcolm would have to listen to him.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

§3§

They'd been going for about another thirty minutes when Trip's legs finally gave out. He slipped out of Malcolm's grip and collapsed with a moan, rolling off the path and finding himself leaning with both hands elbow-deep in marshy ground. Only the idea of lying in muddy water and possibly drowning in little more than a puddle stopped him from collapsing any further.

A moment later there was a splash, and Trip knew Malcolm had dropped down beside him. They were both out of breath, and for a long moment neither spoke.

"Lovely," Malcolm finally breathed out. "Mud baths may be fine with those grouchy aliens we met, but – and I don't know about you – I still prefer a proper shower." He paused, and Trip heard some more splashing as the man shifted position. "You ought to see yourself, Commander," he added with a snort. "You're a sight! Not that you _could_ see yourself, even if you could. See – that is." There was a chuckle. "Well, you know what I mean." He cleared his throat, regaining some seriousness. "Sorry. I think it was that damn..." He caught himself and trailed off.

Oh, no. Definitely not the right Malcolm. With an effort Trip lifted his head, trying to see through the fog of his brain and of his eyes. Not a chance: his friend was still an indistinct shape. Blinking away a few drops of sweat, for he was too weary to dry them with his sleeve, he wished this was a bad dream he could wake up from.

"Bugger off, you unlikely creatures, or I might be tempted to use my phase pistol on you," Malcolm said, in a low voice that had once again the outraged edge of a couple of hours before. For Trip's sake he added, "Those blighted pink insects are here again."

Trip perceived him raise a quick arm to wave the things off, only to drop it abruptly and double over it with a muffled cry. The sight, blurred as it was, sent enough adrenaline through his veins to make him find the energy to speak.

"Have you journeyed your ram?"

"No," was the immediate, nonsensical reply.

"Armed your... _injured _your_ arm_?" Trip finally managed. He groped about for his friend. If he had to rely on touch to know what was going on, so be it.

With some loud splashing, Malcolm scampered back, once again out of reach. "I'm fine," he said irritably.

_Stubborn bastard_. Trip's hand fell back into the water. He just didn't have it in him to argue. Time to give the Lieutenant that order, before he lost it completely.

"Look, I can't go on," he said, putting as much urgency in the words as his feeble state allowed him. "You need to heave me." _Oh, for heaven's sake!_

There was a puzzled pause.

"Bloody hell, Trip. We're still far away from the pod and you're quite heavy," Malcolm muttered uneasily. "We'll rest a bit and then--"

Trip groaned in frustration, cutting him off. "_Leave_ me: you need to _leave_ me here," he forced out. "You'll come back for me when Grudge has eloped with the fox." _Yeah, right._

There was another pause.

"If you mean when 'Phlox has developed the drug'," Malcolm said with surprising insight, "you may as well forget it, Commander."

Trip felt his head fall forward. This was surreal. "That's an order, Lieutenant," he insisted weakly. At least that had come out properly. He was genuinely impressed by Malcolm's perspicacity, though.

"Ha! And what happened to: 'No one ought to be left alone on an alien planet?'" Malcolm countered without delay, and with a snigger. "Gotcha, Commander," he ended with more gusto than their predicament would have warranted.

There was more splashing. Raising his head, Trip watched Malcolm's shape wade back towards him, on his knees.

"Come on," the man said resolutely. "Let's get back onto dry ground. I have no special inclination to turn into peat."

He grabbed him under his arms and lifted them both up, not without a repressed groan that sounded, once again, suspiciously like pain.

Trip let him. What else could he do? Somewhere, somehow, he found a bit of strength, and they splashed their way back to the path, where he managed to promptly stumble and collapse again. Lying down was much too good. He let his eyes drift closed and could no longer fight the blissful pulling of unconsciousness.

* * *

As she walked to sickbay, T'Pol was suddenly struck with the notion that she had hardly met a crewman in the corridors. Of course she knew the situation; she was constantly updated as to the number of casualties Trispian fever was making among the crew: forty-six people at last count – fifty-four-point-seventy-six percent of Enterprise's complement; but it was still a surprise to actually _notice_ the fact that the ship was becoming severely understaffed.

Engineering was somewhat of a problem. The department had been particularly affected, and if she weren't Vulcan T'Pol would have admitted to herself that she was beginning to experience some anxiety. Not so much for what concerned the current operation of the vessel, for there was little to do while orbiting a planet, but for all those more or less minor problems the ion storm had caused, which needed to be attended to; and especially for the transporter's function, because they needed to get that medicinal plant onboard as soon as possible.

Sickbay was quite crowded; certainly as crowded as T'Pol could ever remember seeing it. And most of the sick were not even there, having been sent to their quarters. The Doctor was keeping only the cases he feared were in danger of complications.

Stopping just inside the doors, T'Pol crossed her arms loosely across her chest and surveyed the large room. All the beds in sight were occupied; a few were behind privacy curtains. Phlox was off to one side instructing a group of medics who were to do the rounds and report on the outside patients; he sounded rather flustered. Indeed, he must be beginning to feel the pressure.

"…Check that they have drunk the liquids as they were supposed to and give a hypospray of Anaprovalin to those with a fever of over 103°," Phlox was saying. "If Ensign Müller complains once more that he must… 'serene his gait' or… 'recite his gain' to be of any use shooting a phase pistol, tell him to stop worrying: Trispian doctors have promised all patients would regain their sight, once given the drug."

The medics nodded and made to go.

"Oh," Phlox added, stopping them, "And don't let Crewman Rostov fool you into believing he is well enough to…" – he shrugged irritably – "'pork on the transwarter': the department can survive without him for the time being."

T'Pol's eyebrows lifted dramatically. Faces tightened to keep, supposedly, smiles at bay. One of the medics replied, "Yes, Doctor," and they finally left.

"Subcommander," Phlox said darkly, turning to acknowledge her presence. "I do hope you haven't come to tell me that you're not feeling well."

T'Pol uncrossed her arms and took a couple of steps closer. "I wanted to inform you that there are three Engineers working at making the transporter serviceable again. Provided they do not become… _indisposed_ as well, they ought to be able to restore the device in the matter of a few hours."

Phlox jerked his head back. "Indisposed. That's one way of putting it," he muttered. "Well, not a moment too soon. It's getting to the point I might have to use a UT to understand my patients!"

"Perhaps Ensign Sato could assist you," T'Pol suggested.

She really should have thought of it before. The linguist was currently spending her time perfecting her knowledge of the Trispian language, but maybe she could be put to better use.

"Ah," Phlox said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

T'Pol chose to disregard that uncharacteristically gruff gesture. Phlox was obviously not in the best of moods. "How is the Captain?" she instead enquired. Archer had given in to Trispian fever a couple of days before.

"I'm keeping his fever within reasonable levels, but he tripped over Porthos the last time he got up to go to the lavatory, and added a lovely bump on his forehead to the list of his complaints." Phlox sighed. "I told him to call for help when he needs to get up."

"Perhaps you ought to remove Porthos from his quarters."

"I'd rather not. Pets are known to have a positive influence over people who are unwell. Unfortunately Porthos is no linguist either." Phlox let out a mirthless snort. "'No peas Chorthos' left the poor thing quite puzzled; not that "Are Prit and Falcon mine down on that planet?'" left _me_ any less perplexed.

"I am relieved Vulcan physiology seems to be immune to this particular disease," T'Pol commented with another lift of her eyebrows.

"Indeed."

Phlox pulled a drawer and got a hypospray, which he proceeded to load. "So, how are Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed down on that planet?" he asked. "The Captain is not the only one concerned about them; now that I know that Mister Reed thought the Commander was getting sick, I am a bit worried too."

"The Commander _has_ got sick, Doctor," T'Pol said, repressing a sigh.

Phlox shot her a dark look. "Well, in that case, Subcommander, I believe we shall need the transporter to work soon. And for more than just to restore this crew to health."

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

§4§

"Yes?"

The voice that floated out of the comm. link was not immediately recognisable as that of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. T'Pol exchanged a puzzled glance with Doctor Phlox.

"Lieutenant?" she enquired, against all logic: after all, she _had_ paged Lieutenant Reed.

"I suppose so, unless I've received a promotion I'm not aware of," came back with a chuckle.

"Lieutenant, are you well?"

"Oh, blimey, you too. I'm _fine_," Reed now unmistakably replied, with a sigh that was not lost on his removed audience.

T'Pol briefly met Phlox's corrugated expression. Deciding it would be pointless to pursue the subject of Reed's wellbeing with the man, she moved on to the next obvious question.

"How is the Commander?"

"Asleep."

"Asleep."

"Yes. You know – into a state of sleep; lost to the world and snoring." There was a perceptible snort. "Though in Trip's current case it's more like: 'not alert enough to function or operate properly'."

"Have you measured Mister Tucker's temperature?" Phlox butted in, exchanging another odd glance with the Vulcan. T'Pol let her eyebrows speak for her: indeed this was not their typical and proper Armoury and Security Officer.

Reed snorted again. "Let's see… in between acting as a tree to give him some shade, and a fan to keep psychedelic insects out of his hair, I managed to do that, yes."

In what T'Pol thought was a rather senseless gesture, considering Reed could not see them, Phlox waved a hand in circular motion, finally prompting, "And?"

"And he had the bloody thing. It was 104° and rising."

"Mister Reed," the Doctor said firmly. "I want you to give Commander Tucker a shot of Anaprovalin. You should have five doses of it in the med--"

"Please, Doctor: I have already injected him," Reed cut him off, sounding almost offended. "I do remember my field medicine training. And indeed the Commander's temperature has begun to drop."

"Very well," T'Pol said. Closing her eyes briefly, she savoured the moment of suspension those simple but effective words had brought about. Then she filled her lungs with air, preparing herself to add the next part, hoping that this uncharacteristic version of their Armoury Officer would accept it with less reluctance than his normal self would.

"Now, Lieutenant, please take medical readings of yourself and transfer them to Enterprise."

"Subcommander," an unperturbed voice replied. "I fail to see why I should do that, since I just told you that I'm fine. It's not logical, if you'll allow me."

T'Pol had a sudden urge for her quarters and her candles. "Because it's an order Mister Reed," she calmly replied.

There was a beat of silence.

"Nonsense. Got to go. Talk to you later. Cheerio."

"Lieutenant," T'Pol called, louder than her Vulcan restraint ought to have allowed. There was no reply: the link had been cut off. A small knot of irritation formed in her stomach, and she endeavoured to keep the emotion off her face. Tonight she must definitely find time to meditate.

She turned to Phlox. "What is your professional opinion of Mister Reed's behaviour, Doctor?"

"It's rather obvious that he isn't at all _fine_," Phlox said with a hint of annoyance. "Unfortunately, Subcommander, there is nothing you or I can do about him at the moment. You'd better concentrate on getting the transporter working as soon as possible." Putting a gentle hand to her back, he started herding her towards the doors. "You'll have to forgive me, but I have closer – and more collaborative – patients to take care of."

"Of course."

As T'Pol left sickbay to return to Engineering, she was once again deeply grateful for Vulcan and Denobulan physiology.

* * *

With no real wind in its sails, the boat was drifting along at a leisurely speed, but it was still enough to make Trip feel a pleasant breeze on his hot skin, as he lazily lay sprawled on the deck, soaking up the sun. Eyes squeezed shut against the glare, he followed the path that a series of black dots made across the backdrop of his eyelids, floating in a steady progress from left to right. He was thirsty. Maybe he'd ask Natalie to bring him a drink.

"Hey, sweetheart, mind singing me a brip of somethin'?"

"I seriously doubt you'd want me to, _darling_," a sarcastic voice that hardly fitted Trip's mental image of Natalie responded. "Even provided I knew what a _brip_ is."

Trip blinked his eyes open. Cotton wool surrounded him but a shape was there, and it definitely wasn't that of Natalie. In a flash, it all came back to him. Well, at least he could be sure the girl hadn't suddenly turned into a baritone. Too bad, though: he'd take a baritone Natalie and the sailboat over Malcolm and this planet any day.

Groaning, he brought a hand to his eyes. "S--_ssip_ of somethin'," he mumbled. "Thirsty." He was given the canteen, and drank a good few mouthfuls before relinquishing it to Malcolm's pressing hand.

"You'd better keep some for later," Malcolm warned.

As he let him reclaim the flask, Trip fought to become a little bit more focused, at least mentally. Clear thinking was something else, but he managed to wonder if Malcolm himself had drunk any water at all lately, or was being his usual stoic self.

"You trink doo," he said firmly.

"No need to be offensive, Commander."

A moment later a hand patted Trip on the shoulder. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself," Malcolm said with a tight giggle.

_Yeah, sure_. Trip straightened. He was still feeling rotten but somewhat better than before; at least his headache was gone. Miracles of rest and drugs. Malcolm, on the other hand, sounded definitely off kilter.

Trip stretched his sore limbs. "Have I leapt song?"

"_What_? Really, Trip. I'm beginning to regret not bringing along a UT," came back with a snort. Then the damn man immediately added, "No more than one hour, but long enough to cause my hearing apparatus permanent damage with your snoring."

There was a grunt as Malcolm shouldered what looked like their backpack. "Ready to resume our nice little walk?" he asked, reaching to help Trip up.

Trip smirked. No, he wasn't. The problem was convincing Malcolm about it.

"You go," he said resolutely. "Your duty is to crave the shoe... shave the... _save_ the crew," he finally managed. "I'm downing you slow." Just great. It sounded real convincing.

Another giggle floated back. "I'm craving a shower more than a shoe, believe me. As for shaving the crew, I'm not sure Hoshi would appreciate that. Come on."

Trip let out a growl of frustration, starting to push Malcolm away, but the man whacked his hand, freezing him with surprise.

"Shut up and give me a hand here," Malcolm said. He snorted. "All right, after what I just did I can't blame you if you don't want to."

The next moment he was pulling him up. Trip hung on to whatever he found, and the yelp of pain that ensued told him it was Malcolm's arm again. A colourful curse followed.

"What?" Trip demanded.

"I said: bloody, revolting, cursed--"

"The cream of spain," Trip cut him off. "I mean, _scream _of_ pain_: what's wrong?" He groped about, determined to find Malcolm's arm again, and when he did there was another holler. Malcolm made to pull away from his probing touch, but Trip managed to hold on and felt about, ignoring the string of foul words that was now coming steadily his way: Malcolm had rolled up his sleeves, and his left arm was noticeably swollen and warm, though Trip couldn't find any injury on it.

"Damnit, Malcolm," Trip himself cursed, finally letting go of him. "What's with your arm?" – Incredible, one whole intelligible sentence.

"Nothing, it's just a scratch," the man choked out.

Trip rolled his foggy eyes. "Yeah. And I'm a punk elephint."

"As long as you aren't a pink gnat," Malcolm promptly commented, through gritted teeth. "We've got too many of those already."

Trip heaved a deep breath. "I'm serious."

"So am I, believe me."

He'd never get _this_ Malcolm to tell him how he had injured himself. Trip hung his head. However, he might still be able to convince him that his first duty was to the crew. "Get goin', Lieutenant. I'm in no shape to walz... _walk_." Oh, damnation! His brain was beginning to swim again.

Malcolm chuckled. "All right, no walzes, only tangos." Grabbing him once again, he started to pull up. "Come on," he said. "I will save the crew _and_ you, Commander." Innocently he added, "And that's an order."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

§5§

Time had passed, Trip could not tell how much. He had been zoning in and out but had dragged himself forward, one blind step after the other, leaning more and more heavily on Malcolm.

Enjoying a rare moment of semi-clear thinking, Trip reasoned that his fever must be up again with a vengeance. Indeed his heart was beating loudly in his ears, sending pain lancing through his skull with every throb.

Malcolm hadn't been particularly talkative, as far as Trip's fuzzy memory suggested, but no wonder: if the man's laboured breathing was anything to go by, he was struggling too; and Trip wouldn't be surprised if his injury, whatever its nature, had become infected and had given him a fever as well. Trip could feel Malcolm's uniform under the arm he had across his friend's shoulder, and it was drenched in sweat. Not that his own was much drier.

"Don't worry, Sir," Malcolm suddenly slurred, bringing Trip back from his musings. "We'll be fine."

Trip turned unseeing eyes towards him. "D--drip this… _drop_ this nonsense about rank, Malcolm," he breathed out. He used up half the already limited amount of air in his lungs in the process, but this silly obsession with form really bugged him, considering their predicament.

There was a huff. "I was taught not to fraternise with superior officers, Captain."

_What?_

"Don't worry, Sir," Malcolm repeated, panting. "I'll bring back the plant and the Commander. I won't let you down, Sir. It'll be ok."

Trip silently cursed, concern exploding in his gut. If Malcolm lost it altogether, they would be in very deep trouble. The man seemed less light-hearted, and especially a lot less steady on his feet. In fact they were both swaying dangerously, risking collapse with every new step.

"'s not too far now," Malcolm mumbled, his voice not much louder than a hoarse whisper.

Damnit. He shouldn't have mentioned that. The thought of the distance that still remained to walk seemed to break the fragile mechanism that had made Trip's legs work almost automatically for the past whatever minutes, and he stumbled, yearning for rest.

"This isn't a good time for collapsing, Sir," Malcolm growled, voice fraught with despair and stubbornness in open struggle with each other. The latter won and he managed to keep them upright, and on course.

Trip wanted to say something, even only a 'sorry', but it would take too much effort and concentration, two things he was rather short of at the moment.

And so they staggered on in silence.

* * *

The next thing Trip knew, he was coming to. As conscious thought returned, he mused that logic dictated he must have passed out at some point. He felt still a bit confused but his fever was down again, which was probably thanks to another shot of something that Malcolm must have administered at some point. But when he cracked his eyes open, he collided against the grim realisation that he could no longer make out shapes and colours: he was in almost total darkness, surrounded by a sea of grey. His heart clenched painfully.

"M--Malcolm?" he called, voice wavering beyond control.

Silence.

Trip felt a wave of panic swell within him. Biting his lip hard, he made an effort to clamp down on it, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before he lost his battle against it. Not knowing where Malcolm was, what had happened to him, or even what was around him...

"M--Malcolm!" he called again, desperate to feel less alone. His voice came back to him with a different ring to it. Something felt strange, not like before. It was colder. And the surface he was lying on was... Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, which made him jump a mile. Then the ground trembled under his butt, and if he'd felt a modicum of energy he would have jumped again, this time for joy.

"Hold on, Commander," Malcolm's voice finally was heard saying. "We're bleeding off this lifty planet."

_Oh, no!_ Trip's relief was cancelled in an instant by the shot of adrenaline which coursed through his body, reviving him instantly.

"Mal-- Malcolm, no!" he cried out. "You can't ship a fly... flip a shy... _fly_ a _ship_ if you're half blind!" Groping about he found one of the rear benches and laboriously pulled himself up, trying to point himself in the right direction: bow.

A smug laughter floated back. "Sick bat, Commander, and enjoy the rude smithes," Malcolm said, his lightheartedness back.

_Sit back_ might be no problem – Trip mused, already feeling wobbly on his legs – as for the _smooth ride_... he seriously doubted it. But as it was the pod was already airborne. Trip's hands found the back of one of the seats behind the helm, and he managed to slide into it, praying that they might make it home in one piece.

* * *

The transporter console reminded T'Pol of a wounded animal. Wires were hanging loose and pieces were scattered on the floor. Three red-piped uniformed men were working at it, sleeves rolled up, looking tired and at a loss.

"Crewman Swenson," T'Pol said, addressing the man in charge. "What is the status of the transporter?" She didn't remember ever asking such an absurd question - the status of the transporter was in front of her eyes - and she briefly wondered if Trispian fever wasn't beginning to affect her too, just in a different way from her human crewmates.

The man, a short, stocky red-head who was crouching at the foot of the machine, turned very blue eyes up to her. "The more we work to fix it, the more we realise just how broken it is, Ma'am," he said, wearily pushing to his feet. "Virtually every circuit board was damaged. I expect we'll need minimum another couple of hours."

"It is of vital importance that it is restored as soon as possible," T'Pol said. She hoped her choice of words would convey the urgency that could not be in her Vulcan tone. "Please keep me informed of your progress."

"Understood."

As she turned to go, the comm. link on the wall came alive.

"Bridge to Subcommander T'Pol."

Sato. Her voice held an upbeat note that seemed out of place under the circumstances. T'Pol moved to the link.

"Yes, Ensign."

"Subcommander, we have detected the Shuttlepod: on its way back."

T'Pol felt her eyebrows lift. This was unexpected.

"I'm on my way."

The Bridge was quiet, with only Mayweather and Sato at their posts. No one sat at tactical, or in the Captain's chair. That is where T'Pol headed, proceeding to perch herself on the edge of the seat.

"Report," she said.

"The shuttlepod left the planet's surface approximately four minutes ago," Mayweather relayed. "No communications from it yet."

T'Pol turned to her left. "Open a channel, Ensign."

Hoshi executed the order and gave a silent nod.

"Bridge to Shuttlepod One." Static was heard through the open link. "Bridge to Shuttlepod One," T'Pol repeated. "Please acknowledge. Lieutenant Reed, can you hear me?"

"I can hear you cloud and lear," Reed's voice rang out. "My ears may not be poshy but they're narp."

A giggle followed on the tail of that cryptic comment. T'Pol's eyebrows did something totally new, taking a plunge and meeting in the middle in a rather human frown.

"'Not… pointy but sharp'?" Hoshi suggested with a grimace. Her eyes shifted to acknowledge the look of disquiet on Mayweather's face.

"Yes. Thank you, Ensign," T'Pol said deadpan. "Though I fail to understand why the shape of someone's ears should have anything to do with their efficiency." But of course since it was now clear that Lieutenant Reed was even less himself than before, the question was redundant.

A low mutter made her turn back to the helm.

"Subcommander," Mayweather dragged out pensively. "The Shuttlepod is off course. By as much as five degrees."

T'Pol stood up and went to check the readings on the helm console. Leaning on it on one outstretched arm, she pressed the comm. link and instructed, "Lieutenant, please adjust your heading, you are not on an intercept course."

"Whack the hat... the _heck_... P'Tol, we're flyin' hind... _blind_, here!"

Commander Tucker's voice. Anxiety was not helping his speech problems.

"Self for yourspeak Commander, my fight may not be persect but I'm not blind."

And Lieutenant Reed's. Some things would never change, even with Trispian fever.

"I suggest you adjust your course, Mr. Reed," T'Pol repeated. "That is if you intend to rendezvous with Enterprise."

"That's the plan," Reed replied blithely. "Unfortunately the curious are instrumentally unclear."

"The instruments are curiously unclear," Hoshi whispered.

T'Pol heaved a deep breath which betrayed loss of Vulcan poise.

"Ensign," she instructed Mayweather. "Break orbit and get the grappler online."

A timid smile dawned on the man's face. "I always wanted to be in a rodeo," Mayweather commented, hands already busy carrying out his orders. More thoughtfully he added, "They are going a bit fast. I hope the lines can withstand the pull."

T'Pol secretly agreed. It was something to be desired. The moment she could go to her quarters and meditate would not come too soon.

"Pursuing the cal... uhm, pod," Mayweather announced a few minutes later, having brought Enterprise on the tail of the runaways. "Target acquired."

"Proceed," T'Pol ordered.

"Enterprise, what in the holly bled you think you're doing?" an outraged voice exclaimed seconds later.

T'Pol felt a sudden and illogical urge to roll her eyes. "Helping you with the docking manoeuvres, Lieutenant."

A snort from the communication console told her she might have just 'cracked' her first joke.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for reading this story and letting me know you've enjoyed it. Here is the wrap-up!

§ Epilogue §

Sickbay was beautiful. Trip had never considered just how beautiful sickbay was. Spacious, airy... And Phlox. Phlox was... well, _impressive_. Even that obnoxious smile of his was a wonderful sight.

"Something wrong, Commander?" the very man asked, his face suddenly falling.

"Uh, no, Doc. Sorry I was starin'. It's just that I never realised what a gift it is to be able to p-- I mean _see_ properly." Trip bit his lip in embarrassment, but Phlox, as the true professional he was, didn't remark his near blunder.

A few hours before the Denobulan had administered the newly-synthesized vaccine to the entire crew, but one's ability to put the right letters together seemed to take a little longer to be restored than one's eyesight.

"Indeed," Phlox just commented. Moving to Malcolm's biobed, he checked the sleeping man's vitals on the monitor at the head of the bed. Malcolm had been under for Phlox-only-knew how many hours, and Trip was beginning to wonder if he'd ever come round.

"How is Mister_ I Am Fine_?" Trip asked with a hint of worry, turning on his side.

"I heard you, Commander," a sleepy voice replied.

Phlox chuckled. "A timely reawakening," he said, emptying a hypospray into Malcolm's neck. "He's better," he added, to answer Trip's question. "Aren't you, Lieutenant?"

"'Better' would tend to imply that I wasn't well," Malcolm said, more with it. He cracked his eyes open and turned to focus them directly into Trip's. "It was you who wasn't. Despite your bad attempt at teasing, I was just fine." Pausing, he blinked a couple of times as if struck by a sudden thought; then frowned. "What the hell am I sicking in dobay?" His eyes went wide.

Trip's mouth curled up. "Dubai? You're definitely not in Dubai."

"I mean... _doing_ in _sickbay_?"

Trip painted an 'isn't it obvious' expression on his face, letting Phlox spell things out.

"You succumbed to Trispian fever as well, Lieutenant," the Denobulan said. "Among other things," he added quietly.

There was a pause.

"Impossible."

Now, this was irritating. "And just why should it be impossible?" Trip bit back. Malcolm and his fine-at-all-costs complex were beginning to get on his nerves.

"Simply because I remember that after I got those plant specimens, despite my..." Biting his lip, Malcolm cut himself off. His grey eyes darted to check his left arm. It was bandaged from wrist to elbow.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" both Phlox and Trip prompted, one openly curious, the other somewhat more darkly.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Well, despite... a minor injury," he continued, rushing the words, "I remember dragging you all the way to the pod. I couldn't have done that with Trispian fever."

"_Injury_, huh?" Trip said, narrowing his eyes.

"What are you complaining about?" Malcolm countered. "I blew us-- _flew_ us back, didn't I?" He bit his lip, wincing. "I did, didn't I?"

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "You don't remember, Mr. Reed?"

Malcolm shrugged. "The last bit is slightly... fuzzy," he admitted quietly.

"It's not surprising: by then you were quite ill." Phlox produced a scanner and passed it over Malcolm's chest. In a casual voice he asked, "That... _minor injury_, as you call it: can you tell us what happened?"

Malcolm winced again. "Is it really necessary?

"Ya bet," Trip said deadpan. "You stubborn S.O.B. left me guessin', in my feverish and disabled state, what was wrong with ya. Now I demand to know."

"It was but a trifle." Malcolm heaved a dramatic sigh. "In my hurry to collect those plants and get back to you, I..." He stopped. "Can't I just write it in my report?" he asked hopefully. "All right, all right," he yielded at Trip's glare. "Well, I didn't see that under those plants resided a family of flat, slimy and quite revolting worm-like creatures - equipped with rather sharp teeth."

"Like this one?" Phlox dug into his pocket and produced a clear plastic container, which he proceeded to show to Reed.

Trip watched Malcolm's eyes go wide with surprise. "That's it!" the man exclaimed. "Where did you find it?"

"Under a leaf on one of the specimens you brought back. I analysed it, and found it contains a substance that on human physiology would have a slow but strong doping effect."

"You were _high_?" Trip exclaimed in disbelief. "Because of a _worm_?"

Malcolm blinked and turned to Phlox. "I was _high_?" he enquired with a grimace.

"I suppose you could say that, yes. You certainly didn't sound like yourself when, to the Subcommander who had ordered you to take medical readings of yourself, you replied – and I quote – _nonsense, I've got to go, talk to you later, cheerio_."

Malcolm winced, hiding behind a hand.

"And to think I missed that!" Trip groaned.

"You also developed a local reaction to the bite," Phlox continued. "Your arm got infected and quite swollen. Last but not least, in the end you caught Trispian fever."

"Oh yes: I'd say you were real _fine_," Trip commented, rolling his eyes.

Malcolm's facial muscles clenched. "Well, I got us back in one piece, didn't I? And I brought back that damn plant," he said peevishly. "There are different _shades_ of fine."

Before Trip could tell the man what he thought of that theory, the doors opened to let Archer and T'Pol in.

"Captain," Phlox said in mild reproach. "I thought I had recommended that you rest. You're only just over your symptoms."

Archer gave him one of his more genial smiles. "Don't worry, Doc, I'm fine."

"Not another one," Trip muttered. Grey eyes shot him an incinerating look.

"I swear: if I'd stayed in my quarters another minute you'd have had a mental patient on your hands," Archer went on. "Even Porthos was relieved to see me go." Shifting his gaze from one biobed to the other, he enquired, "How are you two feeling?"

"Never better, Capt'n," Trip said genuinely.

"Very well, Sir," Malcolm echoed, straightening an already straight sheet.

"That's good to hear." Archer squeezed Malcolm's shoulder. "I want to thank you for what you did, Lieutenant, bringing back that plant. Oh, and Trip," he added, merry eyes resting on the engineer.

"My duty, Captain," Malcolm replied. A smug smile appeared on his lips.

Archer's eyes fell on his bandaged arm and he frowned. "You hurt yourself?"

Trip grinned wickedly. "He got bitten by a worm. And it resulted in--"

"It was nothing, Sir," Malcolm butted in, shooting Trip a rather unfriendly look. But the damage was already done.

"A bite? That resulted in what?"

"Was that the reason for the Lieutenant's unusual behaviour?" T'Pol thought well of specifying, speaking for the first time. She latched her hands behind her back, waiting for Phlox's reply.

Trip watched Malcolm fidget, eyes low, and felt a pang of conscience. After all the man _had_ dragged him to safety. "Sorry," he mumbled to him.

"The creature contained a drug-like poison that gave the Lieutenant a curious reaction," Phlox began happily, seemingly oblivious to Malcolm's discomfort. "Mainly it caused Mister Reed to display lack of control, an unusually light disposition, as well as a peculiar and quite uncharacteristic disregard of form. You see, Captain, the particular substance which that worm--"

"Never mind, Doc, thank you." Archer accompanied the words with a smile that fooled nobody, not even Phlox: it was clear he was relieved to have nipped one of the man's lengthy explanations in the bud.

"It will be... interesting to read your report, Lieutenant," the Captain said. "Whatever you... uhm, can remember."

"Yes, Sir," Malcolm croaked out, eyes darting to his C.O. and quickly away. "I'll get it done as soon as possible."

T'Pol tilted her head gracefully to one side. "It was fortunate that Mister Mayweather had not fallen ill," she commented, with a lift of her eyebrows. "He was quite proficient in operating the grappler."

"The grappler?"

Archer seemed lost again, and T'Pol looked at him for a moment, as if expecting the man would come to the logical conclusion on his own. When it became clear he was taking a bit too long, she explained, "We had to retrieve the Shuttlepod, which was off course."

Archer frowned. "Doesn't anybody tell me anything around here any more?"

T'Pol's eyebrows soared again, uncomprehendingly. Trip smiled to himself. He was glad he had regained his sight in time to enjoy the exchange between the Captain and their Vulcan SIC. They were always kind of fun.

"It's that in the end Malcolm got Trispian fever as well, Capt'n," he came to the rescue. "His sight was compromised and we needed a bit of help to get home." He gave his C.O. a reassuring smile. "Don't worry: we aren't planning another mutiny."

"Thank you," Archer said deadpan. He turned to Malcolm. "In light of what I've just been told, Lieutenant, your performance of duty was commendable. It will be mentioned in my report to Starfleet."

"Sir, I really did only what I was supposed to," Malcolm mumbled, in obvious unease. "In fact…" He cast a nervous glance at T'Pol. "Subcommander, I must apologise for... well..."

Archer looked between one and the other, head tilted to one side, a puzzled frown in place again.

"I am quite relieved you are back to normal, Lieutenant," T'Pol commented simply.

"Yes, indeed."

"Crewman Kolinsky told me she has already planted some of the specimens Mister Reed brought back in the hydroponic bay," T'Pol announced, changing subject, to Malcolm's visible relief. She absent-mindedly reached with a hand to wipe off something from Trip's sheet, at the foot of his bed. "She expects the plants to take root without problems." Rubbing her hand on the sheet again, she frowned.

Trip turned to Malcolm. The man's grey eyes had a familiar glint to them, the same that was probably in his own. They both looked at Phlox, and three pairs of assessing eyes shifted back to T'Pol.

"Is anything the matter, Subcommander?" Phlox enquired.

"I'm fine," T'Pol said, blinking. "However, Trispian fever appears to have der-- _reduced_ the efficiency of the laundry crew: there is some sh--"

She cut herself off abruptly, and her eyes for once betrayed an unmistakable dose of concern.

"_Lint_ on this sheet," she carefully concluded.

There were coughs and sputters and clearings of throats.

Trip broke into a comforting smile. "Welcome to the club."

THE END

* * *

Poor T'Pol, I'm becoming a bit too nasty, LOL! Leave a last comment?

Coming up, a new Friend In Need story based on a suggestion from SitaZ :-)


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